


Choice

by thedevilchicken



Category: Frey & McGray Series - Oscar de Muriel
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Frey and McGray really should have been more careful in the suspicious botanist's workshop.
Relationships: Ian Frey/Adolphus "Nine-Nails" McGray
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



This was not the plan. 

The plan had been, in essence, quite straightforward: they would go to see the botanist, they would politely interview the botanist (assuming McGray could be wrestled into something approximating gentlemanly behaviour and would not resort to his usual heavy-handed threats of bodily harm), and they would leave the botanist's workshop in possession of new information. With any luck, that information might even have provided them a lead in the case that did not arrive prefaced with the words, _well, it could be witches..._

It was never witches. Or at least it was never the type of witch generally prone to riding broomsticks athwart the starry night sky or cackling around Shakespearean cauldrons. It was also never vampires, werewolves, faeries, will-o'-the-wisps, or demonic possession, though Frey might have been persuaded to consider the latter had he not seen the label on the jar that had smashed there on the workshop floor as the botanist made his exit. He caught a glimpse in the moments before all vestiges of sanity evaporated from his very body and he threw himself, both literally and figuratively, at Nine-Nails McGray.

Ordinarily, he would have expected a punch on the nose or a swift knee to the groin in answer to his horribly impertinent behaviour. As it was, McGray simply gave a brief and not entirely unattractive grunt of pure surprise, followed in quick succession by a brief and entirely attractive grunt of pure exultation, as he mashed his mouth to Frey's with all the finesse of a Glasgow kiss. 

Frey would like to say he protested but the simple fact of the matter is he had no thoughts of protest in his head, because he had no thoughts in his head at all. There was nothing beyond the sudden, all-consuming need to rend McGray's shirt asunder; it went in a great hail of buttons, each of them plinking from one of the many vials and phials and flacons and beakers that lined the botanist's shelves and then falling to the floor. McGray gave him a look that sat at some indeterminate point between scepticism and incredulity and then proceeded to tear his own undershirt in half from neck to hem. Frey found he could hardly resist a pleased little chirp as he raked his fingers over McGray's now bared chest. 

Surprisingly, raking his nails through McGray's not inconsiderable chest hair while McGray grabbed lewdly at his arse wasn't actually something he'd considered before that moment, but it suddenly seemed to him to be a genuinely excellent idea. It seemed even better when McGray loosed his cravat and threw his whole upper arrangement of garmentry to the pollen-covered floor. It should perhaps have looked ridiculous, the hairy colossus of a man standing there in only his muddy footwear and tartan trousers, but Frey was immediately certain that it was the single most desirable sight on which he had ever laid eyes and proceeded to rub himself over his substantially more elegant trouser. 

He did so while moaning quite vociferously, which evidently McGray took as his cue to rudely bat Frey's hand aside and replace it with his own. Frankly, Frey was not disappointed by this turn of events; what did disappoint, however, was McGray's rather precipitous withdrawal from that arrangement, at which he gave a disconcertingly high-pitched squeak of protest, but McGray quickly soothed his objection. He fumbled at the front of Frey's trousers as he mouthed at his face in a manner not unlike a particularly amorous cod, then he sank to his knees on the polleny floor and took Frey's trousers with him. Then, with a flushed-face glance upwards, he took his ridiculously stiffened manhood so deep into his throat that he gagged on it forthwith. 

Oddly, that did not dampen the mood. What it did was afford Frey a prime opportunity for threading his fingers into McGray's thick hair while the man himself struggled with his gag reflex until he seemed to decide deep-throating did not lay quite within his glazed-eyed capabilities. He removed his mouth to the tip and sucked there, loudly and extremely sloppily, tonguing at the tip in such a tantalising manner that Frey's knees became abruptly weak. McGray shored him up with both big hands at his bare hips, for which Frey showed his gratitude by thrusting shallowly between McGray's pursed lips. 

It all felt unreasonably wonderful, even once McGray released his vice-like hold upon his hips and spun him around like a well-dressed top. He leaned heavily against the botanist's shelving, his gaze wandering distractedly over the variety of cheerfully coloured glassware, even as McGray's hands parted his cheeks. His face was hot and oh, oh dear, he felt McGray's stubbly jaw brush against his bare arse and then his tongue ran down his cleft. He yelped in surprise, then again in consternation when McGray withdrew; the rather lewd manner in which he thrust out his backside must have gone some way to registering his objection inside McGray's thick skull, however, as he found his rim brought into close contact once again with McGray's hot, wet tongue. It lapped there with renewed enthusiasm, producing an unexpected tingle that ran through Frey from head to toe.

For a moment, McGray's tongue withdrew; what Frey felt instead was perhaps his thumb, pressing there against his hole, slick with his saliva. As the tip pressed in, it made him clench delightedly and gasp a breath as he canted his hips. 

"You like that?" McGray asked him, his voice low and rough and thick. "You want more like that?" And all Frey could muster in response was a sort of petulant whine in the back of his throat, but in any case that seemed to do the trick. 

There was a rather large bottle of linseed oil sitting on the shelf before him that Frey had no intention of lifting himself, but he did manage to point McGray in its direction. He hoisted it, and promptly dropped it, splashing the stuff all over Frey's trousers as they sat there awkwardly around his ankles and likely doing nothing positive for either his good shoe leather or the dusting of pollen that lined the workshop floor. There was a second bottle that had lurked behind the first, smaller and evidently much more manageable as it didn't follow its predecessor to an untimely demise against the floor tiles. Frey would have liked to have muttered something disparaging in respect of Nine-Nails' capacity for such a trivial thing as lifting and carrying except the next thing he knew, he had the first two fingers of McGray's right hand pressing directly into his arse; if words had been within his grasp before that, which was not by any means a certainty, they were entirely beyond his reach afterwards. 

The first thought that popped into his head was that McGray had wonderfully thick fingers, both of which seemed to stroke at his taut insides with rather remarkable dexterity. The second thought he had was that the next finger on McGray's right hand was missing to the murky mists of time, and there would likely be no more of them to penetrate him. He made do admirably with what he had, however; he arched his back and pushed against McGray's hand, taking his linseed-slick fingers knuckle-deep. His cock stood up hard as a rod between his thighs, an almost angry red in his disgusting state of near-frenzied arousal, but he found himself reluctant to touch for fear he might go off quick as pulling a trigger. He let his breath hitch instead, and he let his eyes wander, let his hands grip at the thankfully quite well-anchored shelves and felt McGray fucking him quite obscenely with his fingers. It was ridiculous, of course; McGray was kneeling in a pool of pollen-filled oil with his fingers pushed into his partner's arse and Frey, well, his hair was a no doubt dishevelled mess and the state of his attire was, quite frankly, frightening. But for all that matters at hand were far too much, they were also evidently not even close to enough. 

McGray stood. He heard him do it, just as he heard the rustle of his trousers, and then his fingers withdrew and left him feeling quite woefully empty. 

"For God's sake, Nine-Nails!" Frey said, his tone distressingly high and fraught, but he felt sure the only god with any interest in proceedings as they stood would be Dionysus, debauched as they must have looked. 

"Shhh, Percy..." McGray replied, which did not feel at all calming. In fact, Frey's erection became rather more erect and he frowned, briefly irritated to understand that in his far-gone state his manhood actually _enjoyed_ how fond and raw and thoroughly condescending McGray's address managed to sound. It barely seemed to matter after the most fleeting of moments, however, as McGray introduced the tip of his cock to the rim of Frey's hole and all thoughts of annoyance quickly centred only on the fact that he was not, in fact, inside him yet. 

He pushed in. He was slick with oil and thick, very likely larger than Frey was himself, though he frankly couldn't have cared less about that comparison. In that moment, what he cared about was McGray's forehead resting down against his shoulder and his big hands gripping his hips, and the fact that he was spearing him entirely too slowly on the length of his thick cock. It was a wonderful feeling, he thought, McGray's breath against his neck and his hands keeping him still as his cock opened his hole. He'd had no ambitions to bed the man, as he'd had no direct ambitions to bed any man, or indeed any woman once his engagement had been so very rudely interrupted, but the simple fact of the matter was that McGray's cock inside him was the single most pleasurable physical experience of his entire life to date. 

Of course, then McGray withdrew. Abruptly, dismayingly, he withdrew. And as Frey made an attempt to formulate an outcry, McGray turned him. McGray frowned, evidently momentarily thwarted, at the trousers still caught there so inelegantly around Frey's ankles. Then he performed a highly confusing feat that involved hitching up one of Frey's bare legs and stepping in between the two of them, past his lowered trousers, while Frey wondered if he might slip down to the floor; he did not, however, as McGray hauled him aloft with near alarming ease. He pushed him up against the mahogany shelving and encouraged him to wrap his legs around his waist. An awkward shuffle and he was pushing back inside him and Frey gasped, almost alarmed, as their gazes met. 

He supposed there should have been words he could have said to make the situation feel less awkward, but they were lost to him. Even had he found those words, how much less awkward could it have possibly been to have his casually brutal Scottish oaf of a partner sodomising him against a celebrated botanist's workshop cabinetry? The thought must have transferred to his face quite effectively, however, because McGray leaned in and kissed him, roughly, perhaps so he didn't have to look at him, and Frey took the opportunity to take two handfuls of his hair. He found he liked it - it was softer than it looked, pleasant against his skin, a strange contrast to the coarse hair that adorned his chest and ran down between his thighs. When Frey pulled his own shirt out of the way, he could see that hair, and if he reached back with one hand he could feel where McGray's cock entered him, hot and slick and unspeakably salacious. He shuddered, and he clenched, and McGray moaned against the crook of his neck. McGray bucked up into him, jarring him against the rather smart shelving units and making the glassware chime. A few more erratic thrusts then he felt him pulse and he understood: McGray had just spent himself inside him. The thought did not, in fact, disgust him as much as he might have hoped. 

McGray's hand found his cock. McGray's slick fingers stroked him, the stub of his missing ring finger dragging against him in such a thoroughly lascivious manner that Frey could not keep quiet. He still had McGray's cock inside him, and his legs wrapped tight around McGray's lean waist, and the friction of his hand against him was entirely too much. He came with an utterly humiliating wail that would likely haunt his dreams for years to come, though at the time he was disinclined to care a whit. 

Removing themselves from one another was a more awkward affair than it had any earthly right to be, except of course that McGray had arranged them both with such peculiar specificity and they were at present standing in a sea of spilled laboratory oil. Frey's trousers were a wreck. McGray's entire outfit was fit only for burning, though Frey could not persuade himself that he thought more highly of it under any usual circumstances. And as they pulled apart and rearranged their clothing, as his pulse returned to a rate approaching something a physician might consider normal, Frey chanced a brief frown up at McGray. McGray was looking at him oddly, an oily, polleny mess of tartan and dishevelled hair with the back of his hand pressed to his mouth as their gazes met. 

"I suppose we know who the murderer is, then," McGray said. 

"I suppose we do," Frey replied. 

"Do ye suppose he's got any more of that?" McGray said. 

"I suppose he might," Frey replied. 

"We'd best be careful, then," McGray said. 

Frey snorted. "When have you ever been?" he replied. 

And McGray gave him a pointed look that said nothing quite so much as he agreed with that assessment. He agreed, and that might just be the point. 

As they slipped in the oil on their dash toward the door, as they caught each other and pressed into a rather fervent kiss, all sucking and biting and a burn of McGray's poorly shaved chin against Frey's face, it was easy enough to blame the pollen. And afterwards, they ran out into the street to go and catch a cold-blooded killer who happened to be an eminent botanist. Once caught, on his rather disappointing way to the railway station - sometimes the better class of criminal did come with rather staid suppositions as regarded getaways - they left the man with the constables. The two of them took his second bottle of the fucking pollen away before it might be deployed inside a train carriage to sobering - though the exact opposite of sober - effect. 

And now here they sit, in McGray's study, piled high with its precarious tomes. The bottle with its little glass stopper is sitting on the table, shining in the thin light through the half-drawn curtains. Frey feels disgusting, and he knows his arse is still uncomfortably slick with McGray's own come. The fact that he suspects McGray knows that, too, is what makes his cheeks flush warm. 

Whatever they've done up to this point is due to the botanist's pollen. Frey can accept that. It was entirely out of his usually excellent self-control. 

"Frey..." McGray says, for once sounding uncertain. And Frey knows he should respond. He's just not sure _how_.

The pollen was to blame for everything up to this point and whatsoever they do next will be by their choice alone. But he's sitting in McGray's messy study, not in his townhouse. He's in a rickety chair in his ravaged clothing and not his nice warm bath. He's already made the choice, he thinks, and to his great surprise he's chosen this.

He stands. McGray watches him. The look on his face says he expects him to leave, but Frey in fact does not exit the room. 

"Leave it there," he says, and gestures to the pollen. "We'll destroy it in the morning."

"The morning?"

"Yes, I believe it's the period that generally follows night. Which I intend to spend here." He raises his brows. He crosses his arms. "And if you call me _Percy_ while we're in flagrante, Nine-Nails, I swear to God..."

McGray looks surprised, but he doesn't look at all disappointed. And when he stands and strides across the room, when he sweeps Frey back against the nearest wall and kisses him soundly on the mouth, he thinks there might not be very much talking at all just for the moment. It surprises him to find that he hopes there is.

This was not the plan, but so rarely do things go to plan where they're concerned that it's nothing new at all. But he suspects a few things to follow will be very new to them indeed.


End file.
